


The ghost of our desirous union

by luna65



Series: building The Wall [2]
Category: Pink Floyd
Genre: 1978, AU dark fantasy, Canon Compliant, Ghosts, Jealousy, Multi, POV Multiple, Period-Typical Everything, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 07:12:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19807297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luna65/pseuds/luna65
Summary: Britannia Row is haunted, if only by sorrowful minds and guilty consciences.





	The ghost of our desirous union

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in 2010, the second of the stories I wrote which take place during the recording of _The Wall_ , this time set in October 1978. It takes place during the period of time before Bob Ezrin joined the team. It's meant to be written in the style of an English ghost story (like the kind always told at Christmas). I'm not listing Arthur as a character because I can't remember his last name but he was Brit Row's caretaker in that era.

When they finally consented to work together once more, Roger found those eyes – regarding him from the other side of the table – were dark, without the inner light, without the sun which fueled his emotions and in turn their mutual felicity. 

And he wondered where it went, not considering he might have doused it himself.

David was resigned but also dismissive of his ideas. There were moments of tension even in the midst of work, when all had agreed to just get on with it.

Roger looked around, his pad of paper beside him, but where was the pencil?

“Where’d my pencil go?”

“Sorry?” James asked, looking up.

“Let me use your pencil.” It was handed to him and the annoyance passed, but it had been occurring for the entire week. Things kept disappearing…pencils, plectrums, loose change, cups of tea, glasses of water…but he couldn’t imagine who the thief was, there was no one that compulsive in the organization.

The last straw was snapped when he couldn’t find his keys days later to lock up. That task was left to the engineer but as such there was no one to take him home, as David had already cunningly asked for a lift. Fuming, Roger had to call a cab.

October nearing its end, things had become…strange. The month started off well enough but then each day a new intrigue could be seen to appear in the curve of a mouth or the blink of an eye. He kept forgetting to pay attention to what he needed to and then he’d look up to find his glass of water was gone.

“Bloody hell!” Roger roared from his seat at the table. “Who keeps making off with my drink?!”

“Ssssh,” David hissed. “Kate is on telly again.”

“Ah Christ, not that twee twittering again!”

“Sssssh!!” An entire chorus of shushing that time.

He looked over and there she was, writhing around, looking fetching certainly, but he had never been as captivated as her guardian angel David nor their right hand man who had declared not long after they met, “On behalf of the nation, thank you for encouraging Kate.” They had all laughed and their staring lingered beyond the confines of a mere quip. The two were enthralled to behold her image, as she mimed with dramatic gestures and wide-eyed imploring stares.

_Hammer Horror_  
_won’t leave me alone…_

The refrain meets his ears again in a few moments.

_Now all I want to do is forget_  
_you, friend._

And he didn’t believe in portents. But there it was, the prat’s protégé tolling the bell. And his mouth was dry because every time he set down a glass it was gone again.

“Do you think –“

“Sssshhh!!”

They were both sitting forward on the sofa entirely intent upon her, as if they’d never see her again after this moment…which was rubbish because they were forever showing the promo films for “Wuthering Heights,” and “The Man With The Child In His Eyes” and it seemed every time they were all up here with the telly on those two were watching her, and he didn’t believe in conspiracies.

But there it was.

He found his keys in his pocket, three days later.

“So wot did you and Rachel do this weekend, then?”

“Fancy dress party.”

“Vicars and Tarts?”

“No it was fairly tame. Her friends told her she should be Kate, so she found a white dress and –“

David laughed, it was a purring obscene sort of laugh. “And how long did it stay on after?”

Roger looked over to see the other’s face flushed deep, hazel eyes blinking a code of embarrassment and unease.

“Not long,” James finally said, and they were staring again, as if the conversation had moved out of hearing but went on. He moved to write and…his pencil had been in his hand, he could have _sworn_ but it was not.

“Who keeps nicking my pencil?!” he cried out and the others turned as one to regard him.

“Rog, I thought _you_ were the one taking everything. No one can find a bloody pencil in this place!"

Phil appeared in the doorway of the live room, taking one from behind his ear. “Mind you return it then,” he cautioned with good humour.

A plague of lost items, misplaced aspirations, missing motives.

“Has anyone seen my tuning key?”

They would joke about the things gone missing…beginning to suspect a ghost. The studio used to be a chapel, or part of a chapel, David had told their new man.

“Could be we don’t fit their definition of piety,” David theorized over tea, one hand protectively around his cup. “And so they are chiding us for our sins.”

But the humour did not quite reach its target, who was still annoyed because now the drums could not be tuned. “I doubt I fit _anyone’s_ definition of piety, especially at the moment.”

One perfect eyebrow quirked, but the inquiry went unanswered.

“You know he’s resisting your agenda, dear,” Roger chided over lunch. There was a certain comfort in eating Arthur’s sandwiches. Some things were enduring, even if their connection was frayed, the dull shine of the wire revealed, the danger inherent when the protective covering was stripped away.

“Whatever do you mean?” Cool customer that one, his plummy voice denying with his very breath the thing Roger knew to be true. Even their sacred space was whispering to him, though he thought it was all in his head.

_He’s just using you, you know. He lies._

“You can’t sway him, not like you did me. You’re not beautiful anymore.”

David was used to this line of complaint, but it did not faze him any longer.

“Rog, you’re seeing things that aren’t there.”

“Hearing them too? _Oh we should all dine together, wouldn’t that be lovely?_ Since when have you ever cared to fraternize with the help?”

“You’re talking as if he’s a scullery maid! Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t say you’re jealous, you’ve never wanted to do the same.”

_Didn’t I? But then you had to go and **marry** her, knowing full well no one could stand her. Bricked yourself up behind her so I couldn’t reach you any longer._

“Where the hell is my spoon? I’d just set it down and –“

“The ghost must have needed it. Perhaps it’s having soup.”

Silence. But could they hear… _something_? A scurrying, scratching, scrabbling…like mice? But the absurdity of it all drove them to laughter instead.

One day in which Roger’s keys had gone missing once more – taking a cab, standing in the rain, stabbing the buzzer at the front door of the studio for what seemed years before Arthur let him in -

“Where were you, then?!”

“Oh there’s a visitor, I was sent up to make sandwiches and such.”

The kitchen was on the third floor, so no surprise there, but who –

She was folded into a chair in the control room, all waves of long dark silk and enormous eyes, all the better to fall into with no regret at drowning. She nibbled on a piece of chocolate, whilst a rather large bar of Cadbury sat attendance on her appetites, poking out from her dance bag.

“And it was just the most amazing…oh hullo Roger, so lovely to see you again.”

She stood up and hugged him and one couldn’t help but feel warmly protective – the girl was an elfin sprite with a speaking voice to match her stature – he smiled and patted her back in a fatherly fashion.

“How nice, Kate. Is your new record out yet?”

“Yeah I was just telling the lads we had a big ‘do, it was fantastic.”

“At a castle,” David informed him, eyes a-twinkle.

“Hillary arranged it, she’s terribly organized, bless her.”

“Yes there’s truly no substitute for the wonderfully efficient, is there?” Roger replied, looking over at their engineer making tea, giving it the same fastidious attention as with anything he did. As Kate rhapsodized further regarding the coming out party for her new album Roger observed James surreptitiously looking over his shoulder as he waited for the water to boil. Once the kettle chimed and he poured the water into the pot where a phalanx of teabags had been carefully arranged, he turned to face the room with arms folded across his chest, looking down at his feet, then up through his lashes at their guest. Roger found a certain appreciable chivalry in the effort not to stare at – and thus to spook – her directly. The toe of one of his trainers worried at the carpeting of the control room…James was holding himself in, Roger realized. For his attraction might shake him to pieces or cause him to act a fool.

“Three minutes?” he asked of the others.

“Oh five I should say. I like it strong,” Kate declared with a smile.

James smiled in return, blinking rapidly and Roger could have sworn he was starting to sweat. Roger then looked over at David who was beaming. He usually did whenever in the company of this precocious pixie. His speaking voice was gentle affectionate teasing.

“How’s the fam, luv? Your mum still ringing Bob with her ideas?”

Kate giggled, a sound like laughing bells.

“Oh she’s got so many, yes, but now she’s after Da to remodel his waiting room. She says it’s so gloomy.”

“Mind you have enough cups, James,” Roger told the other, as it looked as though James was trying to put a hole through the floor. “Make certain the ghost didn’t short us again.”

“You have a ghost? How fascinating!”

A blush, staining the porcelain skin all the way up to the roots of the sable hair. “It’s the prevailing theory,” James said, looking at his watch, though Roger knew he could count off five minutes strictly in his head.

“Yes it keeps taking things, you see, so mind your choco dear, it might be hungry.”

Another giggle. “Oh I’m so rude, did anyone want a piece?”

Roger watched James fold into himself even tighter. And he recalled the desire to touch and taste the things the desired one had possessed. Deliberately sharing cups of tea with David in their younger years, despite the other taking his too sweet for Roger’s palate. Simply to put his mouth on the place where the other had…in a moment where it could be no other place.

They all begged off, with smiles. Tea was finally ready and Arthur produced various sandwiches, some of them strictly tomato and watercress for their vegetarian guest.

“Oh you’re such a dear, you remembered!”

“Of course, Miss Kate.”

“So have you seen the ghost then? Or does it just steal things like a magpie?”

Arthur paused in the doorway. “Is the ghost back then?”

The three males looked up at him, shocked.

“So there really is something here?” David queried, looking intensely curious, though Roger assumed it was merely for Kate’s benefit.

“It’s been said. The estate agent told me ‘bout a presence, but not how or why.”

“Not particularly a selling point, I imagine,” Roger quipped.

“Sometimes I feel it, the hairs on my neck stand on end, that feelin’ of bein’ watched. But things disappearin,’ that never happened before that I knew of.”

“So was there a tragedy?” Kate wondered and her expression – so ingénue-like – made the others wish they had ghastly tales to entertain her with, wiling away the afternoon.

“Isn’t there always when there’s a ghost involved?” David pondered.

“I was watching this programme the other night – fascinating, really – a parapsychologist –“

“A what?” Roger exclaimed, puzzled but smiling benignly.

“Someone who specializes in the study of supernatural entities. He was saying that tragedy follows some people around, like Eeyore’s cloud.”

James chuckled quietly and the others followed suit after a moment’s confusion.

“So people can be haunted just like houses or buildings?” David asked.

“It would seem so. Though I think your ghost is wondering what you’re up to here.”

“Yes we’re wondering that too.”

More chuckles, though Roger didn’t appreciate his grand opus being lampooned. But he wasn’t about to act boorish in front of the girl, who was a very nice girl in truth. And so lovely…he was enjoying watching the effect her presence had on James, who shunned the sandwiches and clutched his cup with both hands as he continued to stand and look down then up. But his eyes never looked away even with the benefit of misdirection.

Rick appeared a while later, also smiling widely at the sight of the visitor, who asked if she could cadge a fag from him, as she was out. They talked of their mutual residence at Super Bear in the summer; the beauty of Provence, and the heat. James had come to the conclusion nothing was apt to be accomplished that day and had moved to his customary chair, wherein Kate began to ask numerous technical questions, and he was flattered and gratified she took an interest. They talked on of compression and reverb and bouncing from multiple tracks down to just a few for the master reel.

“The dear thing,” David murmured as he moved next to Roger and they both observed the exchange. “He doesn’t realize she’s trying to obtain the short course for engineering from him.”

“Yes she’s a wily thing, isn’t she? Rather takes after you, she does.”

Roger could feel David’s cold blue stare upon his face, like a draft, the buss of a ghost, perhaps. Just as the smoke from Kate’s cigarette made for vaporous patterns in the air, an actual manifestation of what they’d been discussing. By the time she departed it was late afternoon, the sky turning from variations of white and gray to a strange shade of muted orange and red, like bloodstains on snow, the temperature a chilling slap in the face. She left behind smoke and the vague smell of chocolate and her specific feminine aura, a substance not often beheld in that most austere of spaces.

His keys were in his pocket, but he had never felt the weight which would have announced their presence till he absent-mindedly went to retrieve them. _What did it mean?_ , the games the ghost was playing with him, with them, and to what greater end?

The end being, perhaps, that he was moved to believe something he never would have considered before…something outwardly scoffed at…but he _knew_.

Intuition. That was what was lecturing him even now as he watched two talking who stood so close and what they said had nothing to do with what they were speaking of in silent empathy.

James normally showed up to work an hour or two before his clients and departed hours after, depending on what had been accomplished that day. They were creating new demos of Roger’s songs and the initial work had come to encompass rewriting and/or rearranging the tracks as David has been particularly stubborn regarding the quality of most of them. James’ own assessments had to do with making them more fully-realized, with smoother transitions and dynamics.

James considered it a necessary balance: he was empathetic and diplomatic, David was critical and brutally honest, though it was difficult to know at times if his motivations were _merely_ about the music. Roger and David’s personal dynamic was a minefield James wasn’t particularly fond of traversing, but on the other hand their talent was enormous – beyond any considerations of their mythic legendary status - and he was excited to be able to assist them.

So he preferred those moments, sometimes, when he was all alone, save the presence of the other technicians and Arthur the caretaker, who always stayed out of the way unless required. He could sit and listen and figure things out, making notes and charting possible solutions in his tidy handwriting…if he could find a pencil. He’d begun bringing one in every day and he considered it a good day when he was able to depart with it.

But also to be given a respite from the feeling of being scrutinized – for different reasons – by the two of them. They each openly stared at him as they sat and listened and played and discussed and debated and he wondered what it meant…if it was a continual process of proving himself, or curiosity, or –

His entire body tightened to consider other, stranger, theories. But there was something to it, he thought, even as concurrently he tried so very hard _not_ to think of it.

“What were they thinking, exactly, when they had this studio built?” he asked Phil on a particularly cold October morning, more out of exasperation than professional inquiry.

The other shrugged, he was rather laconic in his manner, which James found amusing most of the time. “Nick designed it, y’know. Should tell you something.”

James gave him an incredulous look. “You’re having it on!”

“I wish I were, kiddo. Had to have our boffin Bill come in and fix some of his follies, as it were. Drove poor Brian spare, trying to work it out to actually track anything.”

“Why didn’t they let him do it then? Would have made more sense, any road.”

Phil grinned. “Have to understand, lad, Nick goes through phases where he doesn’t feel particularly useful. So this fulfilled his architectural yen and so forth.”

“But to let someone who’s not even an engineer design a studio?!”

“Makes absolutely no sense, I know. But here we are.”

 _Here we are indeed, bloody hell._ The acoustics were absolutely wretched and the equipment was subpar, fine for when it was new ten years ago, but sadly lacking now. When he inquired with Steve as to changing out the console the other blithely informed him, “We’re having a bit of a cash flow hang at the mo, but I’ll try to get the scratch. Can’t promise anything.” James began wandering the building looking for spaces to utilize which might possess better ambiance, as he knew it wouldn’t do to use some other studio just to record demos. But they couldn’t actually record the album at Britannia Row when the time came, that much he already knew and had said so to his clients.

“Well why the fuck did we build this then?” Roger snapped.

“If he says it doesn’t sound right, then it doesn’t,” David countered, “and you know it.”

“If there were any way at all for me to guarantee that we could record in a manner in keeping with your standards and mine, then I would certainly say so. But the truth is I don’t believe we can. It would be unprofessional of me to advise you to use this facility simply because it’s cost-effective. A bad-sounding record is not going to achieve any of our goals, either artistically or financially.”

He hoped his honesty would be appreciated. There were times, in the past, when it had not. His career might have obtained a higher profile had he utilized even more diplomacy, but his obsessive perfectionist pride would not allow it.

Much sighing and rolling of eyes and frowning followed, but they acknowledged his wisdom. In the end they usually tended to do so; James did feel he was a member of the team in most aspects, even as their issues with each other tended to spill over onto him at times. Sometimes they ignored him in discussions, and it rankled. Griff was quick to attempt to put him in his place when he voiced his frustration, wholly unprompted.

“You may have a title in your contract, but Roger does what he wants. As well he should, being a genius and all.”

James still hadn’t worked out exactly how to treat the other. Most assistant engineers knew the hierarchy and obeyed it or found themselves on the street, as someone else was always waiting to take their place. But Griff had been in the fold for a few years now and was entirely devoted to Roger, thus assuring himself a place no matter what. But to have to work with someone who appeared to openly despise him was a serious annoyance.

“I don’t believe Roger’s talents are in dispute. And neither is my position in regards to this project. If you’re confused perhaps we should discuss it further, **all** of us.”

His tone was polite but firm and his stare direct, and James took a certain spiteful pleasure in seeing Nick turn pale and nervous. He knew the other couldn’t stand the thought of being reprimanded – as he had already spent years watching his bosses torture their former lead engineer – so he looked at his shoes and attempted apology.

“No need, James, I was merely making an observation.”

“One which is entirely unnecessary. I suggest you think about whatever it is you wish to say before you _actually_ say it in future.”

The other shrugged – though James wouldn’t have said it was in acquiescence at all – and went back to cleaning the control room. The new man knew if he attempted to raise this issue to the boss the response would be, “Well you’re in charge, you sort it out, lad.” Anyone who couldn’t hold their own with subordinates wasn’t worth a position of responsibility and that was where the true challenge lay: serving his masters _and_ keeping the peons in line. James sighed and wished the ghost – if there truly was one – would put a sufficient fright into the thorn in his side who took the form of a surely assistant who seemed to dislike him merely because Roger had picked him instead of the other, which was a ridiculous reason. It didn’t matter to Griff that James had more experience, was a producer as well as an engineer and had helped to design and build a studio. He thought he deserved ascendancy merely for his loyalty and there was no hope of appealing to such a mindset.

 _You’re bloody lucky anyone gave you a job t’all, much less the Floyd!_ he wanted to shout, but it wouldn’t do to be so obviously aggressive. He wasn’t a tyrant, and wasn’t about to start merely because it was a difficult situation…though he was tempted more and more day after day.

The relative quiet of the evening, moving into night, was definitely preferred. There was less traffic noise at that time of day, and there was so much dead space in the studio itself James had taken to listening to demos up in the game room on the third floor. All that air would reveal the nuances much easier and he could look out over the lights of Islington and greater London beyond. But an old empty building at night tended to creak and groan and sigh, causing him to curse the very thing which made him perfect for his profession because he could hear every single sound and some of them were incredibly distracting.

Footsteps, though he was the only one in the building. What sounded like a voice, far off, as if someone had left the radio on in another room. A rumble coming from the basement. Could be the plumbing, or the boiler, but he knew those sounds as well and it was neither. It was almost like

_a growl_

the sound of some kind of animal. Not mechanical, he would have known. He and Nick had played a game one day, sitting on the stoop outside, listening to the traffic in the road beyond, guessing what kind of engine was propelling the car driving by before they could see it. Each was impressed with the acumen of the other and therefore a bond of sorts had formed. But James also had a passion for motorbikes which Nick didn’t share, he was strictly a Formula One sort of chap and so other avenues of mutual interest closed once more, ah well.

Vague distracting thoughts like these flitted in and out of his consciousness in order that he would not dwell on the nature of what was within these walls and foundation. But that was a losing proposition. He didn’t believe in the supernatural, not really, but he was the product of a culture with a distinct fondness for the spooky. And he had sat through enough films as a child - then later as Rachel clutched his arm and buried her face in his shoulder – to know that a haunting was very rarely a gentle enduring happenstance. Things tended to go from bad to worse, ending with the eviction of the humans who foolishly believed the edifice involved belonged to _them_. 

James ran a hand over his face and pursed his lips in wry amusement.

_We can’t record here, you see, because it’s haunted._

The previous year he had worked on a record at The Manor, a residential studio out in Oxfordshire, which was also purported to be haunted.

“But what house over a century in Blighty isn’t, eh?” the caretaker remarked, laughing. Although James had never witnessed anything which led him to believe the stories, it was true that the studio’s mascot – an enormous mastiff named Henry - would often raise his head and growl at nothing in the middle of night from his position under the console as James worked on the day’s comps. “Steady on, lad,” he’d say in reassurance, but the dog only ceased when he was certain the presence had retreated. And there was certainly a chill which preceded these events, but it was a drafty place (as is every house over a century).

If he thought something strange was going on, it was merely the power of suggestion, he was convinced. But some suggestions were worse than being haunted.

_It is being haunted, by a person, but in a different way._

From the moment their eyes had met, he had felt a change in the air, like ozone, and the sound had been sucked out of the world, save his voice and

_foolish_

those eyes had hypnotized him, unholy confusion. Then the voice. Like the sirens of yore, he could hear that voice in his dreams, and waking hours were defined by it and the person who possessed it.

There was no mistaking the signs: the whispered flirtatious remarks, slight touches on his arm or shoulder, the foot or knee which always touched, even briefly, under the table or console, the smile, sly and teasing, meant just for him. He knew of people who seduced by their very existence…and this consideration led him back to thoughts of Kate.

Oh…he was in _trouble_.

James had walked her out to the hired car which she kept on call, as she said she didn’t drive. She thanked him profusely for enduring her numerous questions and said how wonderful it was that Dave found him, so that she may pick his brain now and again. His heart pounded painfully to behold that astounding beauty up close, those gorgeous enormous eyes looking into his.

“And you must tell me if you see the ghost, right? Promise!”

He solemnly swore he would do just that, and she waved goodbye, smiling, through the window. James stood on the sidewalk long after the car had departed, and was startled by the touch of a hand on his shoulder. The person in question smiled…sympathetic, apologetic for interrupting his no doubt salacious fantasy.

“Every man falls in love with Kate, if even just a little.”

He blushed hot to send the afternoon’s chill from him, a flush which overcame him and he looked down at dirty pavement, not knowing what to say. It seemed an insult to her purity of spirit, somehow, to admit it.

_Every woman falls in love with David, and some of the men too._

“Just between you and me, Whiz Kid, I promise.”

Warm breath in his ear, warm skin and just the slightest hint of some masculine scent. But the voice…it moved directly to that place within him which was shaken, the confusion tumbled down and became something else, became…desire at the moment of such an intimacy.

“You too, then?” he whispered. “Are you in love with her?”

“In a different way, perhaps, but yes. Some people are so easy to love.”

The second sentence sent blood rushing to extremities and he nearly sank to his knees to hide the reaction. James turned away, looking the other direction down the street and putting his arms around himself as if cold. But he wasn’t.

It was the opposite…burning with a particular torment.

His reverie of memory was interrupted by the sound of a creak then a click. The door leading out from the game room to the stairwell beyond had a habit of swinging shut, despite the absence of a draft. The door and frame were level – James had checked – so there was no logical explanation for the occurrence. A shiver down his spine followed, he was always afraid he was going to be locked in some room in the facility with no one to hear his shouting and only to be discovered after he’d expired from hunger and cold. But there was no lock on the door and sure enough the smooth brass knob turned in his hand to reveal the near-darkness beyond, just a faint light from the stairwell glowing weakly against the gloom.

“Right then, isn’t it time for you to retire?” he addressed the air. “I’m going now, you’ll have the run of the roost again.”

It was his imagination – surely – which caused him to hear another sigh, the building settling as he locked the front door behind him and walked up the street to his car, in the deep chill of a late October night, edging towards morning.

David considered himself a fairly literate person – he was the son of academics, after all – though very little of what he read seemed to stick. But now, in this moment of staring out of cold glass into a void, he recalled, with absolute clarity, a line of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s:

_In the real dark night of the soul it is always three o’clock in the morning, day after day._

He was reminded of this pithy hoary chestnut because it was three o’clock in the morning, or some time thereafter. The real witching hour, Ginger had informed him. She had a fascination with the occult which he patiently endured. When he told her the studio might be haunted she was all aflutter to visit, and they had all made a pact: no wives, no girlfriends, no children, no distractions save those which could be conducted on the premises: snooker, television, oiling the wheels with drink or smoke. They had always been fairly insular and were becoming moreso as the years marched on, even within their own ranks. Friends were politely turned away, the crew was sent to the second floor to be made useful.

So he had to tell her they were too busy to conduct a séance, or whatever one did to deal with a ghost. Her expression reassembled itself into disappointment, but she would forgive him.

It had been made clear to her, the way things were. And it had been made clear to him, the way things continued to be.

When David was infatuated, he couldn’t sleep. He trod quietly upon the floors, so as not to wake the female inhabitants, he sat by a window and sipped scotch, hoping to dull the ache which pulsed within him, a specific name, and face, and voice. Fantasies crowded his brain, as they always had, and there was no respite from their intrusion, nothing to distract him unless he turned on a light and opened a book or a magazine and the darkness was too profound, somehow, to attempt to banish it.

He wondered about…how a certain head of hair would feel within his fingers, a certain mouth against his own, a certain voice reduced to whispers and moans and pleas of _oh god yes please don’t stop_ and he drifted away for a time on the reverie, down a dark river of lustful consideration. His soul forged forward into the darkness, hoping to find light once more in the form of a certain smile.

“You’re looking rather dapper of late, hmm?” Roger remarked, his flinty gaze turned now towards scrutinizing his nemesis, who sported a fashionable haircut and wore button-down shirts with his jeans this season.

“Nothing gets by you, Georgie dear. Can’t win, can I? I was too sloppy, too greasy, and now I’m too posh, is that it?”

“Just an observation, Dave, no need to take on so.”

James tried very hard to keep his expression neutral, but he was amused by the Floydian passive-aggressive sense of humour…when it was directed at someone else. They were all gathered to listen to another set of demos, trying to attempt a foundation. The songs needed to flow into one another to tell the story – Roger had been a good sport about dumping the ones which weren’t working – but no one was really sure if what was left was really working either. The concept was such a deeply personal one, raw emotion and sad remembrance and yet…the sort of situation anyone could relate to in a general sort of way. And it was his job to find that thread of commonality and use it to weave everything together.

James sat at one end of the conference table, Roger at the other, while the three remaining participants took up positions in the centre. It was interesting to note their positions – Nick sat next to Roger while David was on the other side but not nearly as close. Rick was seated between David and James and spent most of the time looking at the table as the tape played. James made notes in regards to any elements he thought didn’t work in playback, as some things might be hard to spot until you heard them in a different environment.

“It’s sounding better now, isn’t it?” Nick enthused with a smile. But even with the natural bonhomie the other possessed it still came off a bit strained. It was melancholy dark music, James admitted internally. It suited the weather of the day rather well.

“At least it’s half-baked now,” David quipped, with just the slightest smirk gracing that sensuous mouth. Fearing he was about to blush again, James began worrying a hangnail on his right thumb.

“It’s going where I mean it to go, but the songs need more work. Nick, we’ve got to redo the drums, it’s just not working.”

Nick frowned for a fraction of a second, then shrugged. 

“Is it not sounding right for you?” James asked. He was genuinely concerned, as he had tried his best to make the drum sound as clear as possible, but Nick’s style was so understated at times it was difficult to tell.

Roger took a sip of water – he’d been holding onto his glass the entire time – and looked down the table at the other with gentle reproach. “Not that, I know you’ve been working very hard. There’s just something missing, try a different arrangement.”

Though Roger was very opinionated regarding most everything, drums were a bit a mystery to him. Whenever James had asked him about tempos or fills, Roger would wave a hand and say, “You sort it out then, right? Or have Dave do it. Then tell Nick what to play.” James had come to realize that David was really the one who controlled the arrangements, though Roger might have ideas, but he didn’t know how to express them other than by the vaguest of notions. But he knew what he wanted, and so they were slowly progressing towards that most ephemeral of ends.

James nodded, and Rick stirred next to him, his body seeming to fold into itself even as he then spoke up. “Are you ready for me to add keys?”

Roger shook his head.

“But there’s keyboards on there already!”

“And it’s fine for what it is.”

Rick stared at the other for a moment and he looked wounded, James thought, but Roger was unmoved. Arthur served them all lunch and talk turned to footie and families and politics. James listened, and he studied them all. He felt in order to do his best he had to know as much as they would allow him to know, as well as that which they expressed unaware: body language, the tones of their voices and facial expressions. Within the first two weeks he had worked out their hierarchy: Roger was bluntly deterministic and David was diplomatically sneaky. He would often have James redo a mix according to his demands after Roger had decided on something else, and half the time the other didn’t even notice the change. David knew how far he could push his own agenda without seeming to fight for it at all. People seemed to mistake David’s shy demeanor for weakness when it was merely that he didn’t fight for things unless it was something truly important to him.

Roger departed shortly after they were done, saying he had to meet Gerry to go over drawings for the animations, and the others seemed to heave a great sigh when he was gone.

“Fine for what it is? Roger never says that!” Rick exclaimed. “He’s trying to force me out! Who’s playing synth then?”

David pointed at James, who fluttered his eyes in embarrassment.

“Sorry, I figured it was a placeholder for your turn.”

“I’ll tell you when to come in, we’ll have you rerecord the parts, right?” David added, as if speaking to a child.

“He can’t just elbow me out of the way as it suits him!”

“We agreed we would record this, and it’s _his_ concept, after all.” Nick chided.

“ **We** agreed, yes, and **we** are supposed to do it, not just him!”

The afternoon went on in this fashion, with protracted debate and complaint and lament, fueled by tea and biscuits and then by wine, and then the front door was ringing and James found it strange that Arthur had not answered. He made his way quickly downstairs to find Gerald at the door, looking confused.

“H’llo James, is Rog here? He was supposed to come round but he never did.”

James made a motion of welcome, feeling more than the chill of the afternoon. Gerald stepped inside, shedding his overcoat.

“He left hours ago, said he was going to see you.”

“Well that’s not on. Should we start phoning people, do you think?”

James paused, mentally filing through various considerations. “If we ring Carolyne we might worry her without cause.”

Gerald nodded, pursing his lips. “Or something else.”

Come to think of it, where was Arthur? James invited Gerald up to the third floor, then looked into the caretaker’s office which was just down the hallway from the front door. A note taped to the office door informed passersby he had gone to the shops. There was a strange lack of sound – almost ponderous in its weight – as if the air was too thick for utterance to travel through. And then

_go away_

like a whisper – he could hear it plain as – but so soft and quick as soon as it was uttered it seemed it hadn’t

_go away_

as if it came from inside his head, somehow

_go away_

and the character of the whisper changed, it was distracting, it was hiding another sound, it was somewhere underneath…he _knew_ it and he turned around in a circle trying to hone in on it, closing his eyes, his own mantra of focus crowding out the command. And then

a cry, from above, faint but also a _thump_

he took the stairs so fast it seemed he flew and from within the room which Phil had commandeered to store David and Roger’s extra gear there was shouting and pounding, and James dropped his keys trying to find the master he possessed to unlock the door which finally revealed a disheveled and shivering Roger.

“How –“

“You didn’t –“

_I didn’t hear him._

The consideration frightened him more than anything, James realized. Just a floor below, it should have been beyond simple to hear Roger pounding on the door and screaming for hours. He was croaking now, his voice hoarse as he choked down whiskey and everyone attempted sympathy. After making the tea he retreated to a corner with his own cup and mulled over the point again.

_I didn’t hear him._

Something was meaning mischief but he felt targeted somehow.

David sat down next to him, with a smile.

“Did something else happen? You look –“

“I didn’t hear him.”

“Well none of us did, dear.”

“I _should_ have heard him, he was right there,” James pointed at the floor, “but I couldn’t.”

“We were all talking, after all. You might have if you’d been up here all alone.”

“No, that’s doesn’t matter. I –“

“Yes we’ve come to learn of your abilities. But don’t knock yourself about over it. It’s odd but –“

David looked over at Roger and seemed to misplace whatever else he meant to say.

James wondered if he should mention the other, the ghostly distraction. The thought turned him cold around the edges, a strange wondering for whatever else lurked underneath certain silences. What else would he hear, and why would it be attempting to misdirect him? The inability to face up to the uncanny, this is what defeated those who encountered it. He was a sensible person, but some things did not make sense, and would not even if reason was brought to bear.

He closed his eyes again, listening for what did not belong, but all he could hear was the conversations and assorted sounds in the room.

 _Exactly_ , he thought.

A pleasant evening at the flat: James and Rachel were viewing a quiz show and enjoying a friendly rivalry in regards to giving the answers, Rachel was ahead by two responses and had declared that her prize would be in the form of his doing the washing up for the next week. James smilingly acquiesced and then grimaced slightly at the thought of chores at two AM or whenever he was likely to perform them. The phone trilled and Rachel answered it with an almost unconscious reflex, likely expecting one of her girlfriends.

“Hullo? Oh…yes, just a moment.”

She put a hand over the mouthpiece, whispering with great emphasis.

“It’s the boss.”

“Which one?” he inquired with a curious raise of his eyebrows, but the warm dulcet tone down the wire made it clear.

“You must come ‘round, Whiz Kid, we’re going to have a séance,” David declared.

“A wot?”

“Kate says Jay knows all about it and we must try to communicate with the bugger.”

In the background, James could hear the girl in question, her laughter like a bird of some kind, crystalline notes hanging in warm air. Then she took the receiver from the other and began her entreaty.

“You must come, James, please? We need a circle of six and with you we’ve just got it.”

He tried not to blush as he sat there, his head full of the sweetness of that voice, the glare and blather of national banality on the television screen while beside him sat the one he adored and all of this ambiguity which had arisen during the course of the month seemingly out of nowhere made him feel as though it were all a sham…his previously tidy and circumscribed existence.

 _She said please, you must never refuse a polite woman_ , spoke the voice of his mum in his head; she had actually never mouthed such a platitude that he knew of, but likely would have if he had sought her counsel. And it was not in him, weak as a kitten at that moment with thwarted unrealistic desire, to do so.

“Yes of course, I’ll be down directly,” he said.

They were gathered in the game room, candles providing the only light, and Kate’s oldest charismatic brother John (who was known to one and all as Jay) was consulting from a pile of ancient tomes and looking very serious. Roger and David were standing off to the side sipping drinks with bemused expressions. Kate held Arthur enthralled with a story of some kind, perhaps one she was making up as she went along.

“Ah here you are, just in time for the proceedings,” David hailed him, with a smile. It was a rather predatory sort of smile, James thought, and he wasn’t afraid of it, only curious as to what it meant, in the larger sense.

(Yet another thing which puzzled him: why did he wonder, why did he care? He didn’t imagine the other would sabotage the project as a whole, thought perhaps that was just his way, to draw people in and yet also keep them at a remove, but there were more obvious subtexts within his words and deeds and something within James wanted to hear it plain…so he could say no?)

_”No, I’m not –“_

(Not what? Not equally infatuated with the glamour and the beauty of that fallen idol? Perhaps not entirely fallen and that’s what he meant to remedy, if he could. Not what, exactly? Not that sort?)

_Then why do I feel –_

He had to stop, he felt a headache coming on. He accepted a cup of tea from gracious Kate and waited.

“This was a place of worship during its history,” Jay intoned, “and like all places in which ritual and rite are professed there is an energy which draws a soul to it, seeking refuge from the harsher truths of both life and death.”

Roger rolled his eyes. Jay fancied himself a poet and an orator and possessed a tendency for the overly-dramatic. Kate worshipped him and even now was looking to him with her round dark eyes affixed to his gangly bearded form as he spoke.

They all joined hands, as per his instructions. Jay had lit some kind of incense in addition to the candles and Roger was taken back to 1968 and strange hours in the company of their former artistic circle as they sat in darkened rooms filled with loud music and strange-scented smoke discussing philosophy and intoxicated by several different things at once. It made him think of the War, a kind of ersatz foxhole community, a bunker full of lazy revolutionaries.

Underneath Jay’s voice which also reminded James of some sort of minister, he could hear hissing and distorted speech, the sense just out of the range of his apprehension. What sounded like words, but too broken up to know for certain.

_They’re not going to like this, are they?_

The feeling of trespass was so strong, coupled with the cold, which descended upon them as a distant bell tolled the hour. The room seemed very dark at that moment, the candlelight mere pinpricks of radiance within the night which had entered from the windows beyond.

“Can we start again?” Kate interjected, shivering. “Arthur, can you turn up the heat, it’s so terribly cold now.”

The caretaker broke the circle. “I’ll see what I can do, dear. The boiler gets fussy at night.” 

Once he had descended into the dark nether regions of the building James came up to Kate with a fresh cup of tea. “Do you think this is safe? Entreating the spirits and such?”

She accepted the offering with a smile and then a ponderous pause. “Jay says as long as we’re respectful of their presence then they shant be angry. We only mean to inquire as to their feelings, you see? Why are they making mischief and such.”

_Why does anyone make mischief? Boredom and discontent._

Her brother was observing them with a suspicious glare. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said, inserting himself into the conversation.

“Oh this is James, dear. This is my brother John, but you can call him Jay. James is the Floyd’s engineer now.”

His expression softened slightly. “Oh you’re the new man, then. Cathy says you’re very clever.”

“One tries,” the other replied, attempting to leech the sarcasm from his tone by replacing it with blushing humility – which he did feel – but his feeling of falsehood was stronger. He assessed the relative as a watchdog of sorts, as David had remarked that Kate was rarely without a guardian of some sort in public, be it her father, one of her brothers, or her bass-playing boyfriend. James was actually relieved to hear that bit of gossip, because temptation was then tempered by considerations of propriety and conscience.

_In this, at least, I can do little wrong._

(And yet, here you are, providing tea and sympathy because she asked you.)

He’d very rarely experienced such a lively discussion within the confines of his own consciousness.

_Is that why I’m here? Really?_

Silence.

“Look at him, the dear thing,” David murmured once more to his nemesis. “He’s so smitten.”

“Rather the norm,” Roger quipped, “when one beholds the vision of Kate.”

“Even you then? I wouldn’t have thought she was your type, Rog.”

Roger gave his partner a pointed sarcastic glance. _Are you mental?_ “I’m not blind or dead, y’know. Just as leering as you when I choose, though perhaps less so.”

David knew it was the tequila talking (Roger was on his third Sunrise, a favorite drink of theirs), but he considered the gibe surprising, that his old Georgie would admit to a wandering eye when in the whole of their relationship he was always so quick to accuse David of inconstancy.

“Do you leer, m’dear? Or do you just sneer?”

Roger snorted with laughter despite himself. “How’d you get so clever? Is the ghost talking, hmm?”

_Oh I’m possessed all right._

“Yes I’m the medium, dear, didn’t you know? Don’t even require a crystal ball.”

Roger snickered and all eyes turned to them.

“I hope Arthur can turn up the heat,” Kate said, rocking on her heels and hugging herself. “It’s positively Arctic in here!”

All thoughts of the others then turned to musing upon keeping her warm in various ways and if she had known she might have been gratified…though likely just embarrassed.

“Well we must all huddle together, dear girl,” David said, going over to the bar and pulling out a bottle of brandy. “Much like our hallowed ancestors in the face of strife.”

And so they sat in a sepulcher of sorts: together on the sofa passing ‘round the drink and sharing stories of inconvenience and hardship, a true English pastime. The warmth and intimacy were illusory, lulled by alcohol into a camaraderie of sorts…all the better for whatever observed them to conspire as to hijinks once the witching hour was nigh.

David blinked, the moment between unconsciousness and the waking world blurred by disorientation. The room was dark and icy and everyone had fallen asleep and he could not recall when it had happened. His last memory was of them drinking brandy and Kate recalling the night she had recorded the vocals for “Hammer Horror” as the boys in her band tried to frighten her for a realistic performance.

And then, apparently – like those sojourners across the wide poppy fields in search of Oz – they had all succumbed to deep slumber. It was too dark to check the time on his watch and the surroundings were perfectly silent save the collective breathing of those on the sofa. David’s eyes adjusted to the lack of light and he reflexively counted the participants.

_One, two, three, four -_

Wait, that wasn’t right. He counted again, then stood up and looked around, faint light from the windows on the other side of the room allowing him to look into the shadows. He checked nearby chairs and the floor and none of these places revealed any other person.

David’s heart began pounding to realize James was missing.

_But who’s to say…he might have left, after all. Awoken to realize it’s the middle of the bloody night and this was all very silly, wasn’t it?_

But David knew he would have woken either Roger or himself to say he was departing, their engineer was a thoroughly responsible and polite sort of chap.

But also, where was Arthur? He would have done the same, and neither was he in the room. He considered they might be huddled elsewhere, such as Arthur’s office, but if so why was it still dark and cold? It was evident by the numbing temperature that their caretaker had been unsuccessful with his efforts to get the boiler to cooperate. David leaned over Roger, placing a hand on the other’s shoulder.

“Rog,” he whispered. It struck him that this was something familiar in their experience: the late night awakening…either in departure or demanding intimacy. He had to shake his nemesis to achieve his goal.

“Wha…Dave, wot are you doing here?”

“I’m not in your sodding bedroom, idiot, we’re still at the studio!” David hissed in reply.

Roger sat up, rubbing at his face. “But why?”

“We fell asleep, that’s all, but…”

“Wot?”

“I think something happened to Arthur and James.”

Roger attempted, in his half-wakeful state, to make the same reassuring assumption which David had made but after a few minutes he came to the same strange worrisome conclusion.

“We need to grab a torch and go downstairs.”

“I think we should all go, wot if something happens to us too?”

David grimaced, not that Roger could really see him.

“No I’m not dragging Kate into this, whatever it is. I imagine they got locked in somewhere, like you did. How did that happen, any road?”

Roger had walked across the room where a torch was mounted to the wall above the fire extinguisher labeled with the appropriate sign. He turned it on, pointing away from the couch, scanning the other end of the room. 

“I was going down the stairs when I heard you calling me.”

David found his coat and put it on. “Wot? From the top of the stairs you mean?”

“No, from that room.”

David opened the door - _Wait, the door was closed? No, it hadn’t been, had it?_ \- and the wan light was shining upon an empty stairwell and shadowy corners, as always. “But how could I have been calling you from there? I was still here when you left. I couldn’t have come down the stairs before you!”

“Didn’t think ‘bout that, I s’pose. I heard you and so I went to the storage room. The door wasn’t locked and I went in, closed the door out of habit, then it locked behind me.”

David put his hand on Roger’s arm and they halted in their descent. “But it **can’t** , Phil put a deadbolt on that door, can only lock it with the key.”

“Stop trying to scare me!”

“I’m doing a bloody good job of scaring myself, thank you very much, let alone you. But something’s gone wrong, don’t give a toss wot you think.”

“Well then somebody locked me in!”

“Now you’re not making sense, who would do that?”

Roger galloped down the stairs to the second floor landing, glaring up at his nemesis.

“So it’s better to think there’s a ghost? Really, Dave?”

David took the stairs more slowly, then took the torch from the other.

“I’ll go look, you can do whatever the fuck you like. Go home, why don’t you, if all you _really_ want to do is be an argumentative arsehole.”

“Oh yes, you want to be the hero, I understand. You rescue the dewy lad and he falls into your arms with blushing gratitude –“

David shoved Roger up against the far wall with one hand, he could be brutal when he was of a mind to. Roger smirked.

“You possess enormous - if incredibly misdirected - passion, dearest. If only I could get you to pay attention to our career, ah wouldn’t that be a lovely thing.”

“Shut up!” David growled, his face mere centimetres from Roger’s. At that moment the air seemed to turn thick, too thick to breathe, and the two heard growling which was almost an echo of David’s voice.

_Go away._

They paused, their eyes – sky blue and storm blue – widened and looking about, into the shadows and down the stairs. But they were alone as far as they could _see_. What they could _feel_ was another matter entirely.

A voice, then, in another room, muffled but seeming to call. Roger’s complexion turned chalky.

“Wait, that was –“

David let go of him and in turn Roger put his hand around David’s wrist.

“ – that was you!” he breathed. “Like before.”

His mouth was agape and David looked equally gobsmacked.

“That’s wot you heard?”

“What do you hear?”

A frown. The voice was indistinct, but it was obvious, wasn’t it?

“It’s them, it’s got to be them. They’re trapped downstairs somewhere.”

“If they’re in the basement we couldn’t hear them!”

“The building is empty, can hear just about anything now.”

Another _growl_ , then a _groan_ and next a _sigh_.

_He’s ours, not yours, go away._

David felt frozen inside, the immediate onset of terror. It was telling **him**. wasn’t it? It knew what he was thinking, knew how he had smirked to hold that hand which sweated slightly at his touch, to see a flush even by candlelight staining porcelain skin. For seconds he looked at the pale slack-jawed face of his partner, wondering…a bizarre suspicion had taken hold.

_Did you call something up here, when you knew? And now it’s out of your control, isn’t it?_

“You wouldn’t let him get hurt, would you? **Would you?!** ”

“Wot? Of course not!”

“Then we’ve got to find them!”

Roger’s look of fear turned to mocking surprise. “Why look at you, Dave, s’if you’re about to weep!”

_yeshedidithedidithedidityes yes yes yes_

“So help me, if you raised this thing –“

“What the bloody fuck are you on about?!”

_He gave him to us._

The voices – bloody Christ they were driving him mad – seemed to be all around and yet only David could hear them. Because to forestall the whispering with ridiculous and madness did nothing to actually **silence** it.

Nothing else to do but run.

_Go away._

The voice had woke him, out of a dream about Rachel. He was following her through a crowd, shouting at her to stop and wait for him, but she didn’t hear him. And the crowd grew frantic, people were running, people were falling down and being trampled, people were pushing him and so he could only move forward, but he could never reach her.

_Go away._

James lurched to a sitting position, panting, he could see his rapid breath in the cold of the room. This was not misdirection but command, but it was so dark, how could he find his way out? Breathing reached his ears and he decided to wake everyone but –

_help you must help I can’t move_

It was Arthur. Just the faintest frightened whisper, but not near him.

And was **that** misdirection? Because he remembered what Roger had said to him when he pulled the other out of the storage room.

_I thought I heard something._

James reached out, to touch the person next to him, but his hand alighted on cold concrete. He wasn’t in the game room.

David picked up a crowbar he found in Arthur’s office, as the whispers grew louder, and the growling seemed to fill the building, making it swell.

“Gonna use that on the ghost then?” Roger called after him.

“Sod off!” David took the back stairs down to the basement two at a time. He nearly tumbled headlong, flipping a light switch in passing which, naturally, did not respond.

_Naturally. Fucking hell._

He would wrench open every sodding door he could find, they had to be behind one of them. Holding the torch out so that the beam found the floor he moved along, straining to hear anything above the whispering.

_getoutgetoutgetoutgetougetoutgetoutgetoutgetout_

David called out their names, his voice hoarse with frigid fear.

_you can’t have him_

Was it merely his own common sense murmuring this declaration? In one of those guru books Syd was always reading he recalled some kind of phrase having to do with the mind, calling it a ghost because thoughts did not have a form. But that would mean they were all delusional, not just him. Everyone had experienced some kind of bizarre occurrence, and Arthur had said –

First door. He jammed the crowbar between the door and the frame and pulled for all he was worth. The door popped open, splinters of wood flying, but other than boxes and crates of equipment, there was nothing there.

“Dave for fuck’s sake, don’t wreck every door in the place!”

“Do you have keys to all of this? I certainly don’t!”

No, of course they didn’t. Only Arthur and Phil had keys to all of the rooms.

David looked up at the ceiling.

“Look, I know you can hear me, right? Right. We’ll clear out, how’s that, hmm? We’ll get out, just like you want, only give them back to us. **Right now.** Otherwise so help me I’ll ring a priest or a psychic or what-the-bloody-hell-ever to get **you** out. So you either cooperate or you kill me, how that’s then, eh?”

“Lord love a duck you’ve fucking lost the plot, haven’t you?”

David ignored Roger and continued to look up, waiting.

Silence. But in the wake of silence came a pounding, echoing down the hallway.

“Can anybody hear me?!”

David’s heart pounded in time with the sound. _Thank heaven, hell, or whatever agency responsible._

The dawn was staining the spires and distant bells chimed as swallows chased and chattered above the rooftops. David breathed deeply again, as if he’d been underground.

_Very nearly, I reckon._

“So strange it just stopped,” Kate remarked again, standing next to him as she waited for Jay to get the car started. It was always fussy of a cold morning.

“Well I gave it a good talking to, like I told you dear. I’m sure it was already quite disturbed by Jay’s incantation and so forth.”

“Poor Arthur though, is he going to be alright, you think?”

David gave her his best reassuring smile, and a hug. “Yes Cathy, it will all work out in the end.”

She smiled at the invocation of her childhood name. After another few minutes the siblings were on their way, moving out of Islington in a trail of sputtering exhaust.

“He really should get that looked at,” James remarked as he came through the door and locked it behind him, donning scarf and gloves. “Sounds like the intake line is all fouled up.”

David nodded. “So hang the accountants, kiddo, is there room at Utopia for us?”

“You’re really serious about finding a new studio?”

“Yes. I’ve had quite enough of this gothic misadventure.”

“I’ll ring Phil Wainman tomorrow – no, it’s already today, isn’t it?” He looked off towards the horizon and David smiled his secret smile to see the tip of that precious nose turn rosy as the new light.

“Today is another day, yes. Let’s hope it’s a less interesting day.”

“Yes, here’s to commonplace. I’ll ring you and Roger later then.”

“ _Much_ later, please.”

After the other drove away with a rumbling roar in his Italian sports car, David continued to stand and watch the light grow brighter, fading the shadows and with every breath he let go of that awful dread whatever occupied the edifice had bestowed upon him.

Roger had been the first to leave and David thought it fitting that he should be the last. Finally, he too walked away from that narrow building on Packington Street which had once been a church, toward the Angel tube station. Yes, he had to laugh at the perceived irony of his method of egress…but not too loudly. You could never tell who might be listening.


End file.
